


house of cards

by katertots



Category: Chicago Fire
Genre: BFFP, F/M, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:07:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26261641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katertots/pseuds/katertots
Summary: Sometimes her goodness and ability to extend grace to others threatens to cut him off at the knees. Right now is a perfect example. He doesn’t deserve it, doesn’t deserve her. Though, damn it all, does a big part of him wish he did.
Relationships: Sylvie Brett/Matthew Casey
Comments: 39
Kudos: 138





	house of cards

**Author's Note:**

> *emerges from my quarantine cocoon* 
> 
> Hello! 2020 is the absolute worst, and I haven't had ANY creativity to speak of with regards to writing. However, I managed to cobble together this one shot, albeit two days late, for the August BFFP challenge. It doesn't matter that I missed out on the prize drawing. I'm just happy to have finished something. I hope you enjoy.

* * *

_You're just playing the game but the stakes are too high_

_What will you do when the chips start to fly?_

_When the deck's stacked against you and the living gets hard_

_Oh, it's the four walls of madness in this house of cards_

_Common you call me but I know there's time_

_In a handful of diamonds, a heart's hard to find_

_And your house of cards starts weighing you down_

_Oh, your nights become restless when the clubs start to pound_

_— “Variation on Friends” by Elton John_

* * *

When he was 12, Matt and his sister Christie would compete to see who could build the tallest house of cards at the dining room table before the inevitable collapse sent the cards scattering everywhere. Since no competition would be complete without stakes, the loser had to do the other person’s chores for three days. Neither were opposed to sabotage on occasion in order to avoid a double chore list. A well-timed exhale here, or an unfortunate kick to the shin beneath the table there, and the shaky structure would come tumbling down. 

Much like those houses of cards from his youth, Matt can’t seem to establish a solid foundation when it comes to his personal life. Every time he thinks he’s building something that will last, some cruel twist of fate sends a wrecking ball to demolish his plans. First Hallie. Then Gabby. Naomi, he supposes, though he got through the other side of that unscathed, and can look back fondly at their time together. 

Which leaves Sylvie.

It’s not necessarily fair to lump her into the same category as the other relationships seeing that they haven’t even kissed or gone on a single date. But he’s in a fatalistic mood tonight, brooding about the end before it could really begin. It is what it is. 

Tonight was supposed to be their first date. After months and months of telling himself they were just friends, or that the timing wasn’t right, or whatever other pathetic excuse du jour he came up with, he’d finally pulled his head out of his ass and asked her out. The happiness that radiated through her smile once he’d asked made his heart knock wildly against his ribs. And still does, if he’s being honest with himself. 

He’s a fucking moron for not expecting the wrecking ball. 

Instead of another house of cards meeting its demise this time, it was a ton of bricks. Literally. A brick wall had collapsed on top of him last shift and he’d been pinned beneath the rubble. By some miracle he’d escaped with only minor injuries after Severide and the rest of Squad 3 dug his ass out of there. 

The sheer panic he’d glimpsed in Sylvie’s eyes when she rushed over to assess his injuries had scared him and made him feel like an asshole for scaring her. Rather than trying to alleviate either of their fears on scene, he’d turned up his internal dial to dickhead and pushed her away. He’d regretted it instantly, but he kept his stupid mouth shut. 

Waiting in the hospital had given him too much time to overthink. Everything about the call that left him trapped and injured suddenly felt like a bad omen for whatever was happening between him and Sylvie. She’s suffered more than her own fair of shit in life, especially in the past year, and the last thing Matt ever wants to do is add to her hurt. As much as it sucks to admit it to himself, they’d probably both be better off in the long run if he left her the hell alone. So later, when Sylvie’d slipped through the curtain of his room at Med to check on him, he’d stubbornly doubled down on that same dickishness from earlier, telling her he was fine and wanted to be left alone. Though he’d stopped just short of saying the words _it’s probably best if we keep our relationship strictly professional_ outloud. 

That felt like a bridge too far, even if his behavior had all but implied it. 

Now he’s recuperating alone at home with one ankle in a boot, his left shoulder in a sling, and a body full of cuts and bruises. His surly mood proved too much even for Severide and Kidd to tolerate. Matt gave them the tickets to tonight’s Blackhawks game that he was going to take Sylvie to for their first date as a peace offering. (And to avoid getting tossed out on his sorry ass.) Before leaving tonight, Kelly had chucked a bottle of Gatorade and some ibuprofen at Matt’s head. _Quit being an asshole by the time we get back or I’ll put you back in the hospital myself_. 

A knock sounds on the door. Matt casts a wary eye in the general direction, intent to wholly ignore whoever is on the other side. The knocking continues, more insistent this time. Clearly this person can’t take a fucking hint. Maybe he should have had the foresight to hang a _Do Not Disturb: Miserable Bastard Inside_ sign on the door. 

Another round of knocking. “Fuck’s sake!” he grouses, ambling awkwardly off the couch to hobble towards the door with a single crutch under his good arm, cursing the existence of the intrusive knocker. He loses his balance, nearly wiping out on the floor. At the last second he catches himself on the entryway table. Searing pain stabs through his injured shoulder, making him see spots. “Goddammit!” His mood at this point can only be described as thunderous. 

Matt unlocks the door with as much force as he’s able to muster and wrenches it open. “What?” he roars. 

A stunned Sylvie Brett stares back at him with raised brows, holding a pizza box. Shame douses his temper in an instant. He can’t believe she’s at his doorstep after the way he spoke to her yesterday. But she is. Looking so fresh-faced and pretty that it eases the miserable ache in his chest. 

“I see your sunny disposition is still in tact from yesterday,” she replies, her tone full of reproach, lips pursed disapprovingly like maybe she wants to tell him to go fuck himself. He couldn’t blame her if she did.

Chagrined, he avoids her eyes and leans heavily on his crutch for support, feeling color flood into his cheeks and all the way up to the tips of his ears. Truly he’s a miserable bastard. She doesn’t deserve any of this. “Jesus, Sylvie, I’m sorry. I didn’t know it was you. Just—” he trails off with a groan. “ _Sorry_! ”

Sylvie sighs and shrugs it off, pasting a tight-lipped smile on her mouth. “Apology accepted. Can I come in?” 

Matt’s eyes narrow in confusion. “At the risk of sounding like the asshole that I am right now, what are you doing here?”

“We had a date,” she says, the dimple flashing in her cheek. “I’m improvising.” 

Sometimes her goodness and ability to extend grace to others threatens to cut him off at the knees. Right now is a perfect example. He doesn’t deserve it, doesn’t deserve _her_. Though _damn it all_ does a big part of him wish he did. What would life look like for him then? That line of thinking is a slippery slope that will only worsen his mood, so he curbs it. “Sylvie—” he murmurs, scrubbing a hand over his jaw. “I’m terrible company right now.”

She considers him for a beat, blue eyes searching his face for answers he’s not able to give. “Maybe so,” she says finally, shifting in the doorway to lean against the jamb. The smell of her perfume floating around them is intoxicating. “I’m a big girl, Casey. And I’m right where I want to be. Besides, I can’t eat this pizza all by myself.”

Matt hesitates while the internal battle to push her away or keep her close rages in his head. He’s pathetic.

Straightening to her full height, a firm set to her jaw, she pins him with a pointed stare. “Look, Matt. If you truly don’t want me to stay, then I’ll leave. But you’re damn well gonna have to say the words. I’m not intimidated by your Grumpy Gus bullshit. So, if you think I’m going to turn tail and run because you’re in a bad mood, you’ve got another thing comin’.” 

_Well, shit_. Sylvie called his bluff, like she can see right through him. He waits for the panic to course through his veins; it doesn’t come. He knows good and damn well he can’t say the words she all but dared him to, so he doesn’t bother trying. Heaving a grizzled sigh, Matt shuffles out of the doorway, fighting a grimace as pain radiates through his shoulder again. He gestures with his chin towards the living room. “You can stay.”

A curious mix of victory and relief washes over her face as she follows him into the apartment, closing the door behind her. It then dawns on Matt that she likely expected him to send her away again. Guilt swirls sourly in his belly, leaving him feeling an inch tall as he turns and slowly moves back towards the couch. It’s one thing to tell himself that she’s better off without him, but attempting to make her realize that feels a hundred kinds of shitty.

He’s acutely aware of Sylvie’s presence behind him as he carefully sits down at the end of the couch and props his crutch against the end table. She puts the pizza on the coffee table and the scent of it makes his mouth water. He can’t remember the last time he ate anything. 

Sylvie shrugs out of her blue puffy coat and drapes it over the back of the chair. She’s wearing a Blackhawks t-shirt with her jeans. This was probably the exact outfit she would have worn if they’d gone to the game as originally planned. Another pang of regret hits him square in the chest this time as he tries not to picture sitting next to her at the United Center, leaning in to explain the finer points of the game while sipping overpriced domestics and celebrating to _Chelsea Dagger_. 

“First things first,” she says, interrupting his daydream and sitting down beside him. “I’m going to change your bandages. Cooperate, then you can have pizza.”

He stares at her, incredulous, feeling his eyebrows pinch together. “You’re not on-shift, Sylvie,” he says gruffly. “I’m fine. There’s no need to change my bandages.” 

“You’re fine, huh?” she asks skeptically, the corner of her mouth ticking up. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and reaches for the med bag he overlooked earlier when she arrived. Sylvie points to his chest. “Try telling that to the growing blood stain on your shirt.” 

Matt glances down. _Aw hell_. Sure enough, there’s blood soaking through his shirt near the strap of his sling. He must have reopened that wound on his trip to answer the door when he nearly ate shit. Sylvie is methodically pulling supplies from her bag and setting them on the coffee table. “I can do it,” he insists. Though how he’s supposed to manage that, he hasn’t a clue. Jesus, he’s in a mood. He’d cut off his damn nose just to spite his face tonight. 

Sylvie picks up her bag again and makes a big show of rifling through it. Her brow furrows as she reaches to the bottom. “I thought it was in here.”

“What are you looking for?” he asks. 

Her head snaps up, eyes locking on to his, her lips pressed tightly together in thinly veiled annoyance. “A bottle for you, since you’re acting like a big damn baby! Sweet Lord, Matt, you are infuriatingly stubborn sometimes.”

His lips twitch into an amused smirk, then a low chuckle rumbles out of his mouth. People don’t give Sylvie Brett enough credit for being funny sometimes. She’s hilarious actually. Even if (or maybe especially when) she’s calling him on his bullshit. Sighing, he attempts to dull the worst edge of his mood and stop wasting time with Sylvie by being a dick. “I’m sorry,” he says, shoulders slumping in defeat. “You don’t deserve this.”

“You’re right,” she says with a nod. “I don’t. However, you had a house collapse on you yesterday. I’d probably be grumpy, too.” Sylvie glances down at her hands. “If the roles were reversed, I’m fairly certain you’d be at my place trying to help me.” She lifts her slightly to meet his eyes again. There’s a light of uncertainty flickering in them that wasn’t there before. “Wouldn’t you?”

Matt’s stomach sinks. He hates that he’s made her question his loyalty to her. But what choice did she have in the matter, really? He’s so emotionally constipated a majority of the time, how could she know what she means to him when he hasn’t said the words? “Without a doubt,” he finally says. 

Her face softens and she reaches for his hand, wrapping her fingers tightly around the top of his. “You’ve been there for me in countless ways this past year, Matt. Please stop pushing me away and let me return the favor.” 

Accepting help does not come easily to him. Neither does opening up and allowing himself to be vulnerable. But for her, he’s willing to give it a try. “Okay.” 

Sylvie’s eyes narrow slightly. “Okay?”

Matt shakes his head. “You’re gonna make me say it aren’t you?” 

“Oh, Matt,” she starts, the pat of her hand on the back of his only slightly patronizing. “Of course I am.” She gives him an adorably coy smile that lights up her eyes.

What a fool he was to try and push her away when everything about her is goodness and light and feels like balm to his battered soul. Already he feels like a load has been lifted from his shoulders. “Sylvie—will you take pity on my sorry ass and help me change my bandages?”

Sylvie shrugs, nonchalant. “Sure. It’s no trouble at all.” 

Matt huffs out a low laugh, and they trade smiles, both quiet for a beat. There’s a noticeable shift in the air between them as Sylvie reaches for the medical supplies. It’s as though the last piece of the puzzle fell into place: in order for her to change his bandages he has to ditch his shirt. Loathe as he is to admit it, with his left arm out of commission she’s going to have to take it off for him. 

Of all the ways he’s imagined getting shirtless with Sylvie (and there have been many recently, okay?), he never thought it would happen because he has a bum shoulder and needs medical assistance. 

She turns her body and scoots closer to him on the couch until her knee bumps against his thigh. “Here, let me,” she says softly, reaching for the adjustable strap of his sling. Matt drops his good arm to his lap and sits perfectly still while Sylvie loosens his sling. Warm fingertips graze the back of his neck as she carefully lifts the strap over his head. Two innocent touches while she works and already his insides are topsy-turvy, like he’s a teenager with his first crush on a pretty girl. 

He’s a grown ass man, thank you very much. 

(Who also has a pretty major crush on a very pretty girl.)

Sylvie sets the sling aside and meets his eyes with a mirthful smile on her lips. “I know it’s only our first date, but I need to take your shirt off now,” she teases.

A playful and flirty Sylvie Brett is an experience he hadn’t known was missing from his life. But now that he’s had a glimpse, he’s gonna be hard pressed to go without more. “Could’ve at least let me eat my dinner first,” he counters with a smirk, gingerly scooting forward on the couch. 

“Noted,” she tells him, a pink tint blooming high on her cheekbones. It seems like nerves have chased a bit of her bravado away. Matt knows a thing or two about that. He’s lost count the number of times he nearly asked her out or made a move before chickening out at the last second. 

She doesn’t say anything else as she reaches for the hem of his plain white t-shirt, gingerly lifting it up his torso. “Okay, this arm first,” she instructs, tapping his good arm for assistance in pulling it free. Next, she pulls it over his head and carefully down over his shoulder until it’s completely off. 

Her soft gasp echoes like a gong through the quiet of the living room. Matt knows she’s stunned by his body. And he doesn’t mean that in any sort of conceited or sleazy way. A brick wall landed on him yesterday, and _it shows_. His entire torso is mottled with varying gradients of black, blue, and purple bruises. Matt can practically hear the wheels turning in her brain as she quickly catalogs his injuries. Again, not at all how he’d imagined her looking at his shirtless chest. 

“It looks worse than it is,” he supplies, settling back against the cushions. It’s mostly true, at any rate.

Eyeing him skeptically, she cocks her head to the side. It’s pretty clear she doesn’t buy that excuse for a second. But true to form, she grants him a truckload of grace and doesn’t press the issue. “If you say so,” Sylvie concedes, reaching for a pack of gauze and a bottle of antiseptic solution. “Alright, let’s take a look.” 

With sure and gentle fingers, she peels away the tape and bloody gauze from his chest. Matt rests his head on the back of the couch while she inspects the wound, relishing the warmth of her fingertips on his skin. His thoughts stray to the last time she’d changed a bandage for him. Sylvie had been insistent then that he keep his wound clean after he’d caught a stray Roman Candle to the neck. In an attempt to get closer to her and see if his newly emerging feelings for her amounted to anything, he’d sought her out in the bunk room to ask for help with a bandage he could have easily handled on his own. Fat lot of good that did him since he’d panicked shortly thereafter and unwittingly sent her back to her ex. After that, life for a while was less like an unstable house of cards and more of a never ending game of 52-card pickup. 

“This is gonna be cold,” she says, snapping him back to the present, and irrigating the laceration with an antiseptic solution. 

He sucks in a pained breath, gritting his teeth in order to sit still. _Goddammit,_ that shit burns like a motherfucker! “Jesus, Brett, is that straight rubbing alcohol?” 

She has the nerve to look amused instead of apologetic when she answers, “It only stings for a second. Need me to blow on it?”

Sylvie may have an angelic face and a kind heart, but there’s a devilish streak inside. He knows it. It’s the only explanation for why she’d torture him like this. And he doesn’t hate it. Part of him would very much like to say _yes_ , but he refrains. “This is a weird date,” he chuckles.

She giggles and tapes the new gauze into place. If he’s not mistaken, her fingertips linger longer than necessary on his skin before dropping her hands to her lap. “I don’t think so. Unorthodox, maybe.”

Matt grins up at her. “Ergo _weird_.”

Sylvie shakes her head, playfully rolling her eyes. “Whatever you say, Matt Casey,” she says, mirroring his grin. “I’m going to get a clean shirt for you then we can eat pizza, okay?” She starts to get up from the couch, but Matt grabs her wrist to stop her. 

“Sylvie, wait—” 

She does as he asks, looking at him expectantly to say what’s on his mind. His heart kicks into double time in his chest. _Shit_ . He didn’t think this through. There’s no plan of what he wants to say to her. _You’re a fucking dumbass, Casey_! The only thing he knows is that he is tired. He’s tired of wasting time. Tired of keeping her at arm’s length. Tired of expecting the worst to happen and never keeping the good things in his life. 

The way he sees it, he lucked out yesterday in that wall collapse. He could have died, and they both know it. He saw it written on every face at 51 once he’d been rescued. It’s time he stops wasting the life he’s been given. Time to grab hold of the chance to carve out some true happiness with both hands.

Matt carefully sits forward and draws his hand up to card his fingers through her hair, his eyes mapping every feature and emotion on her gorgeous face. His hand settles at the nape of her neck while his thumb traces back and forth over her cheek. Sylvie’s eyes close as she leans into his touch. She’s so soft and so beautiful he finds it difficult to breathe. “Thanks for keeping our date,” Matt says finally.

A low chuckle rolls past her lips as her eyes slowly flutter open. “You’re welcome.”

“Yeah, I’m gonna go ahead and kiss you now.” 

Sylvie smiles and meets him in the middle. “Thank god,” she whispers, her warm breath fanning out over his mouth. 

Matt brushes his nose against hers, their lips teasingly close without actually touching. A warm, heady rush sparks to life in his belly knowing Sylvie’s wanted this, too. “Sorry I took so long,” he murmurs, then tilts his head just so to fit his lips neatly over hers. 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments fuel this fic writer's soul! If you could be so kind as to let me know what you thought of this, that would be rad!
> 
> Also, yes, I still have plans to continue "filling in the blanks as we go" but please see the notes at the beginning about the creative wasteland I've been living in. :)


End file.
